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bodies, yet can’t place in my mind all the scents from my childhood that return. Anise? Lemon verbena? Thyme? No, scents are themselves.
Sulumwoya.
    The sound from my sleep came again, a scuff of bare feet. ‘Oh, you,’ I said, over the back of the chair.
    Saliba was at the shutter, staring down on the sea. ‘Already they have come,’ she cried out.
    The fresh sprigs of sulumwoya were wilting in her arm-bands. On her breasts a garland of bwita flowers looked pale and smelled heavy. There was a hibiscus flower in her hair. The dye of the red-and-yellow skirt had hardly had time to dry, and the skirt stood out from her hips in layer on layer, the work of weeks by the glare of the Tilley lamp, in this room. I saw that she could after all look graceful, and like her dead mother, and realized that she herself must all the time have known.
    ‘Who will look at you?’ I said, polishing my glasses.
    ‘
Ku sasop
’,’ the girl said, meaning that I was lying, or was joking, or was honestly mistaken.
    ‘Misa Kodo will not see you.’
    ‘
Ku sasop
’,’ she said again, and pulled a face. ‘Besides, I do not like the Dimdims.’
    ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘a black man, is it? A mainland man, a
polisimanu
.’
    ‘Ssss,’ she said. ‘I do not like those policemen.’ Then she exclaimed: ‘
Wa
! He is very big.’
    ‘Who is big?’ I said.
    ‘That one,’ she said, pointing at the sea.
    I got up from the creaking chair and came to stand beside her at the window-place. By the islet the
Igau
lay at anchor. Two outrigger canoes that had hoisted their basketwork sails to make use of the sudden breeze were moving away from her, and in one of them a white man stood squinting under his raised hand at the house. Against the dun-coloured sail his clothes were dazzling.
    ‘That is Misa Kodo?’ I said.
    ‘No,’ she said, scornful, drawing out the word. ‘You are a blind man. Misa Kodo is not so big.’
    ‘I am not a blind man,’ I said. ‘I am not a deaf man.
Ku sasop
’, Salib’.’
    She smiled, tolerant, all her attention on the canoes. As soon as the beach palms hid them she flared about and ran for the veranda. She was there, intent, and in the post of honour, when I came out with my hat on.
    ‘Move,’ I said to her. ‘This is my house. Here I am commander.’ I took my place at the head of the splintering wooden steps. ‘But old,’ I said, to her who believed it more easily than I did. ‘
Mtaga sena tomwoya
.’
BENONI
    When people heard that the
Igau
was coming they went down to the beach-path. I was at Misa Makadoneli’s house, speaking to the old woman Naibusi, and I went with them to see Misa Kodo, because I thought he was my friend. I stood by the path among the others and watched the people from Osiwa coming up from the beach. In front of them all walked Misa Kodo, because he was the leader, and behind Misa Kodo came a very big young Dimdim who is not truly a grown man yet, and is called Misa Dolu’udi. Misa Dolu’udi walked like a good-tempered man who was eager to go to a place. But Misa Kodo walked as if his legs were heavy.
    When they came out of the shadow of the palm-grove they passed close by me, and in the sunlight I saw two or three white hairs on Misa Kodo’s head, which was black, and the light shining on the hair which he had on his arms, like all the Dimdims. I was standing among other people, but taller than any of them, and I smiled at Misa Kodo. But he did not see me, and walked on, and my mind was heavy. When he was here before I said: ‘Are you my friend?’ and he said: ‘Yes, truly,’ and gave me tobacco. So then my mind was heavy, because I thought he was my friend.
    As Misa Dolu’udi passed me he stopped and looked back. He stepped out of the line and stood by the path, watching the other Osiwa people. Behind him was Osana, the interpreter of the Government, and behind Osana two men from the boat-crew were carrying a big fish on a pole. After the fish came a man with eyes like a